More Than Just a Mistake
by cubye4
Summary: What if the "Flaw in the Plan" had been Dumbledore's? DH, if there had been a mistake in the calculations. Mult-POVs. Yes, the title has been changed.
1. Chapter 1: Where Has He Gone?

**Hope**

**What if the Flaw in the Plan had been Dumbledore's? DH, if there had been a mistake in the calculations.**

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**Chapter 1**

The war left behind devastation of such a magnitude that the survivors of Hogwarts were desperately hoping that they were having a nightmare. The harsh and frighteningly true reality was that they were not, and even more horrid than that, it wasn't over.

It seemed that horror like this shouldn't even be allowed to exist. Surely the very land itself would not be able to withstand it. Surely it was threatening to rebel, to simply disappear so as not to have to witness this. So many could already feel the Earth practically disintegrating beneath their feet.

It had been easier when the actually fighting was taking place, for them to believe that maybe, just maybe they were actually winning. But with the casualties so stark and bright before their eyes, the sense of hopelessness that so often comes with fear, was taunting them and holding them as prisoners to the grief.

_They weren't going to win. _

It was like a mantra floating through the air, from person to person, as a single all knowing and all known thought, so that they were as one in their despair. Even if they had any strength left, they wouldn't be able to shake it, not with so much destruction surrounding them. Even though they knew there were people still missing, things to be done, there were very few who were able to bring themselves to do it.

There were packs of mourners spread across the room, some huddled together as though physical contact could mend their souls. Many people were crying, or else shaking with silent sobs. There were really only a handful of people who were actually still trying to hold themselves together, so as to help the injured and try their hardest to comfort the rest.

One family stuck out the most, not because of their size or because of their noticeable features, but because of the tremors that tolled off of them and seemed to catch in the thick air. The Weasley family had not been the only one to suffer loses, but their grief was their own, and therefore hurt the most.

So much time had been set aside, preparing for this moment, for the trying time when they'd finally get to fight! Actually attack; though it seemed more like they were defending. Now the time had come, and how they wished it hadn't. No one ever said that the road to freedom is easy, but was it really necessary for so much destruction in order to attain peace?  
Ginny Weasley had never seen her mother so distraught. She had seen her cry of course, many times. She was the mother of the Order really, the one who so often had to stay home and pray for her family and friends, hoping they'd return safely. Yes, Ginny had seen her mother cry, but never like this.  
The tears she shed now were not for fear, no, the fear had already consumed them. The tears were for mourning. The mourning of –

Ginny drew in a shuddering breath to try and steady herself. The tears were still wet upon her cheeks. They were foreign to her. She, unlike her mother, wasn't one to wear her heart on her sleeve, to parade her emotions like a flag to the world. She had always been like that; she'd grown up with all brothers after all.

Oh, her brothers.

"Fred, Fred," her mother was sobbing and Ginny couldn't stand it.

No, it couldn't be possible. It just couldn't be. This couldn't be happening, not to them. She had heard stories of the tragedies of the First War, had caught snippets of the news about the casualties of this war, but they were just unknown names. They were faces that she couldn't and wouldn't ever be able to meet. It was so far from her, she'd never truly be able to understand.

But this, this wasn't just another battle, off in another part of the country, the world. It wasn't something she could just put away in her mind, as something that had happened, but hadn't really meant anything to her. It was her family now, her friends.

Hermione's arms were still around her shoulders, and she could feel her shaking. Sweet Hermione, Ginny knew just how much she cared about them, like her own family. Well in a sense, they kind of were. They were as close as you could get to it.

Her family. Would they ever be the same again? No, that was impossible. There was no way they'd ever be able to be whole again. Not with Fred –

And what of George? What was he going to do?

A choked sob escaped from Ginny's lips. She had not looked at her brother since he came into the Hall, bearing his twin in his arms. Oh, the look on his face. It had been the look of someone being tortured to insanity. Ginny could not lift her head to look at him. Her eyes were glued shut, her arms hanging over her head like a child. _If you can't see it, it doesn't exist. _

But it did exist. That was Ron beside her, his ragged breath blowing on her neck. And that was her dad's hand stroking her hair. It couldn't _not_ exist.

No, no, no, no, no….

And suddenly she couldn't take it any more. She _wouldn't_ take it anymore.

With one violent movement, she pushed off all the hands that were holding her, and stood up. She regretted it almost immediately after.

The first thing she saw was Lupin's pale face.

She was having trouble breathing. Where had all the air in the room gone? With the dead that now haunted her eyes? It felt that way.

She didn't think she could stay there another minute. Hermione was the only one to notice her moving away.

"Where are you going?" she asked in a strangled voice. Her eyes were red.

"I want to help," was all that Ginny replied, and without another look at any of them, she scrambled off out of the Great Hall, out of the front doors, and onto the lawn.

She didn't want to help though. She wanted to escape. She wanted to get away, run as far as she could from this terrible nightmare and never, ever return.

She wanted it all to _stop_.

Again she was crying. How many times had she cried tonight? More than she could count. This war was breaking her.

She was stumbling blindly across the lawn now, not exactly sure what it was that she was looking for, but sure that she'd know once she found it. It was so quiet out here. Too quiet. Suddenly she wanted noise, anything to drown out the sudden sounds she was hearing in her head.

Those sobs, she was so tired of them. She couldn't hear it anymore. Why wouldn't they all shut up? Why wouldn't they all stop crying?

But _she_ was the one who was crying. It was her tears splashing against her hands, falling onto the grass she was clutching with her fingers.

But when had she fallen to the ground?

_Fred_….

No, no, no!

She saw his face in her mind. He was so pale, so still. No.

_Help, help_, she begged to anyone, someone, _someone please_ help!

But no one was coming to save her; no one was there to rescue her from all this agony. They all needed rescuing themselves.

That's when she heard the soft voice murmuring.

She was suddenly on her feet, running towards the sound as though it was a saving line. She fell to her knees when she saw the girl. She was a sixth year like herself, from Hufflepuff. But for the life of Ginny, she couldn't remember the girl's name. She wished she could.

"Are you alright?" she asked. It was a stupid question of course. The girl seemed to have been cut by something, the whole right side of her face was covered in blood and she was whimpering softly.

She shook her head at Ginny's question.

"Okay, let me help you. Come one, let me get you inside."

The girl was crying. "I don't want to. I don't want to fight."

Ginny wasn't really listening. All she could thing was _I don't want to fight either_. "It's alright," she attempted to console the girl, or maybe just herself. "It's ok, we're going to get you inside."

"But I want to go home, I don't want to fight anymore." Her voice was so soft, her eyes full of painful tears. Ginny was suddenly desperate. Was she hurt somewhere else too?

"I know, it's going to be alright."

Ginny reached out to take her hand, and it was then that it happened. The most strange sensation, as though there was someone standing right behind her, watching her.

She turned around sharply, her hand already on her wand, but there was no one there. Only the endless grass, scattered with things she didn't want to think about.

But she didn't look away yet. It was still there, that feeling of someone so close to her that if she just reached out she'd certainly touch them.

Then her eye caught the blades of grass just inches from her. The ground seemed to flatten itself out on its own. Like a hairbreadth of wind had compressed it. Or like a foot that wasn't really there had stepped over the lawn. Had stepped over it, walking away from her, towards the forest. Towards….

She has a sudden unnerving and unshakable urge to get back to the castle. With all the strength she had she lifted the girl from the ground. "Can you walk?" she asked her, relived when the girl nodded.

Together they trudged back to the castle steps, and through the door. It wasn't until she walked back Great Hall that she realized what it was that she needed. The moment she looked around she realized what was missing.

She gave the girl over quickly to Madame Pomfrey, who looked, though upset that there was another injured, relived that it wasn't worse. Ginny was then running over to her brother.

How could she have possibly forgotten? Sure she was shaken, sure she had just lost one of her brothers, but wasn't he family too? Surely he was more, worth more to her that he should have been one of the first people in her mind. Hadn't she been thinking about him all during the fighting? How could she possibly have not once questioned his absence?

"Ron," she panted, coming to a stop in front of him and Hermione.

They both looked up, seemingly shocked at the sudden anxiety.

"Ron, Hermione, have you seen Harry?"

There was a hot feeling in the pit of her stomach now, a feeling more than worry. Something like guilt. How had she not noticed him missing until now? How had she not even once thought about him since the fighting stopped? She had assumed he would be with them, but now that she thought about it, she hadn't seen him with them at all.

"We were just going to ask you the same thing," Ron answered. There was a terrifying look in his eyes, a look of panic that Ginny did not like to see. She was having trouble breathing again.

If no one had seen him….

"You mean you have no idea where he is?" she demanded desperately.

The looks on Ron and Hermione's faces answered her question for her.

"Well he couldn't have just disappeared," she snapped, as though they had suggested it. "He has to be somewhere around here."

But as she looked around the room again, the feeling returned. But it was stronger this time. That phantom ghost out on the lawn. No, no, no, no.

"Ginny," It was Hermione and Ginny snapped her attention back to her immediately. But her words weren't the comforting ones she had hoped for. "I'm sure he's just helping…."

"Oh, you're sure are you?"

Hermione's eyes were filling with tears again. She was biting her lip so hard it had started to bleed. For once she looked unable to say anything.

"He needs to be here," Ginny said again. He just had to! She would not let the thought she had been thinking since she'd been out on the lawn, blossom into anything more than a baseless worry.

Again Ron and Hermione looked at each other with anxious eyes.

"I'd better go and find him."

For some reason she was angry at the two of them. Why weren't they doing anything? Didn't they realize that their best friend was missing amongst a war, amongst enemies who wanted nothing more than to cause him harm?

But before she could stalk off, another person joined them. In fact, Ginny nearly bumped into him. "Oh, I'm sorry Neville."

But he didn't even pay her any attention. His eyes were only for Ron and Hermione. "Hey, listen, I just saw Harry and he - "

"You saw Harry?" Ginny turned on him, her voice demanding. "When? Where?"

"Just a few minutes ago, he was out on the lawn."

It seemed as though something was wrecking havoc in Ginny's stomach.

"What was he doing?" The question came out as a whisper.

"He said he had some business to do." Neville addressed the next part to Ron and Hermione, who seemed to not be breathing for worry. "He said that if you were busy, and I had the opportunity, I should kill You-Know-Who's snake."

For one moment Ginny was sure that the world had come to a pause. Both Ron and Hermione were staring at Neville as though they couldn't comprehend what it was that he was saying. And then Hermione let out a gasp that was so quiet Ginny saw it, rather than heard it.

"No." She turned to Ron as though he was going to give her something to take away her horror. He didn't do anything but stare right on back, his mouth open in shock and his face white.

"He wouldn't," Hermione whispered. "He wouldn't."

Again what Ginny had encountered outside ran through her head. Hermione's reaction played out in her mind, in front of her, and she knew. She looked Hermione right in the eyes as she said the words that she dreaded to say, while knowing with all her heart that she was right, "He would."

From a place that none of them could identify a voice called out, menacing and terrifying, ricocheting of the walls so that everyone heard it, "_Harry Potter is dead_."

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It would be so nice if you'd review!


	2. Chapter 2: He's Not Coming Home

**Hope**

_A/N: Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed/alerted/favorited (yeah, that's not a word) this story. It means a lot to me, you're all so amazing._

_So I wasn't sure what I should do for this chapter. I really wanted to write something from Hagrid's point of view, since I had it in my head for a while, but I was going to keep the story more from Ginny and Ron's point. But then Hagrid's part went crazy in my head, and I figured I would have to write it down, so for all the Hagrid lovers I hope you like this! _

_On with the story!_

Disclaimer: I forgot to write this on the other chapter, but quotes you recognize from the book do not belong to me, and unless I can find a stash of Polyjuice and some of Rowling's hair, they never will.

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**Chapter 2**

The last time Hagrid had seen Harry had been before he was swallowed by the swarm of Aaragog's descendents. And he was praying with all his might that he was not about to see him again.

Hagrid couldn't exactly remember how he had gotten caught by Voldemort's cronies. He had just escaped from the bloodthirsty spiders and was making his way back to the castle to help with the fighting when he was spotted by the monstrous giants.

He was strong, of course, but no match really, for two full grown giants. It didn't take them long to bring him back into the shadows of the trees.

Hagrid had no idea why they didn't just kill him then. All he could do as he was taken back into the forest that he once considered as his second home, and which now had become like a foreign stranger to him, was think about what Voldemort would possibly be able to gain by keeping him alive.

It wasn't long after he had been tethered to a tree, after considerable fighting and a steel-like punch in the gut, that he found out.

The Death Eaters all stood in a circle around a crackling fire that was sending quivering shadows dancing around the clearing. With a tinge of irony Hagrid noticed that the clearing had once been Aaragog's home. His family was nowhere to be seen.

Voldemort, Hagrid glanced at him only once, was silently watching the flames with a sort of reverence, as though contemplating what it would look like to burn someone within the heat. He had made no movement, no sign of recognition when Hagrid had joined them, for which the grounds-keeper was quite thankful.

Hagrid continued to pull against the binds that held him to the tree, but to no avail. They had been tied by magic, and he had no means of which to free himself.

The silent watch continued for a few quiet minutes, not once broken by so much as a cough from any of them.

Then, with no warning, Voldemort lifted his head. His Death Eaters glanced at him.

"I wonder," he hissed, his voice so silent that Hagrid had trouble hearing what he was saying, not that he was trying very hard to. "If our guest knows why it is that he is here."

Now Hagrid was making an effort to catch the words. Still he used all his effort to not look up.

Voldemort let out a whisper of a laugh that sounded just as malicious as a loud cackle would have. "Tell me Hagrid, do you know what we are waiting for?"

There were chuckles from surrounding Death Eaters.

"Or," and there was what seemed like amusement in his voice. "Did you not hear my announcement?"

Hagrid swore in his mind not to answer the question. But this didn't suit well with the murderous monster. Without so much as a warning, Voldemort had turned his wand at him and cast a silent spell. Immediately Hagrid's mind went wonderfully blank. There were no thoughts of how so many people were dead, how he was being help captive by one of the most terrible wizards in existence, how the castle that had always meant so much to so many had now become a bloody battlefield.

_No_, a voice in his mind answered Voldemort's question.

It was just as he was about to open his mouth and let the word out that he realized what was happening. He fought it as best as he could. The end result was a muffled response that sounded like he was trying to speak around a hand clamped to his lips.

There was more laughter at this.

"Tsk, tsk," Voldemort muttered, letting the spell die. "Does that mean _no_?"

Hagrid continued to stare at the ground.

"Do you wish me to tell you?"

Silence.

"You don't want me to ask again."

Hagrid lifted his head by an infinitesimal amount, his gaze holding as much hatred as he could manage. That sick, twisted form of a smile met him. "We are waiting," Voldemort said. "For your dear little friend, Harry Potter."

Hagrid's stomach felt like a boiling pot of water. He felt sick at just hearing Harry's name uttered from the same lips that had cast so many curses. But there was more to the anxiety than that. Harry wouldn't come, would he?

"Yes," Voldemort answered his unspoken thoughts. "He's coming."

"He won't," Hagrid shouted, and more laughter rung out.

"He will, and I'll tell you why. Because I know him, I know he can't stand to see others die for him, others suffer for his cowardice. It's his weakness, and my greatest advantage. He will come."

"He won't," Hagrid yelled again.

Voldemort smiled once more. Hagrid wondered just how terrible a situation had to be to warrant such pleasure from the villainous wizard, and shuddered.

"You see, Hagrid," Voldemort continued. "Harry _will_ come, if not in the allotted time that I have set for him, then very soon after. Because if he doesn't," and there was menace in his voice, "I have the perfect incentive for him."

That is when Hagrid realized why he was there, why they had tied him up like an animal rather than just kill him. He was bait. Bait to lure Harry from the castle, lure him to his death, if Voldemort's threats hadn't been strong enough.

Breathing heavily, Hagrid hoped that for once Harry would think of himself over someone else. That this time, he would stay behind, he would not come forward, he would not do what he thought was best. Because sometimes, what he thought was best didn't turn out to be so. Like now.

It would do no one any good for him to hand himself over now. No good for anyone's sake, except maybe Voldemort's. Because, and Hagrid believed this with all his soul, Harry was the one who would be able to defeat the Dark Side. Harry was the one with the power, the strength. Harry, The Chosen One, was the one who was going to end this, once and for all, and it would be insane for him to hand himself over.

Hagrid knew this, he just hoped that Harry did.

And so they waited. He did not know how much time was passing. The sky was hidden by the surrounding trees, but even so, Hagrid could tell that it was too dark for it to be dawn yet. How much longer would Voldemort wait until he would try another way to get Harry to come to him?

Apparently not much.

There was movement from outside of the circle watching the fire, and for one terrifying moment Hagrid thought that it was Harry. His breath caught in his chest and he felt as though someone had dowsed him in cold water. It took him the length of two horrified heartbeats for him to realize that there were, in fact, two people entering the clearing, both of whom were far too large to be Harry.

They were more Death Eaters – Hagrid could never remember any of their names – and they both stepped forward, into the light of the fire. Voldemort lifted his head a small amount, waiting.

"No sign of him, my Lrd," one of them said.

Relief. Pure and utter relief flooded through Hagrid, so that the quick change in emotion made his head spin.

_They hadn't seen him_. _He wasn't coming._ The words played again and again in his head and he closed his eyes, thanking his lucky stars that Harry had found some sense. Or, more likely, Ron and Hermione hadn't let him come, had held him back, knowing his sacrifice could do no good.

He barely even cared what it meant for _him_, that Harry had not arrived. He couldn't find it in himself to be afraid of what Voldemort might do to him. There was room only for that immense, lovely relief.

But he forced himself to come back to reality, despite the lightheadedness from the joy.

"I thought he would come," Voldemort was saying, and Hagrid felt so relieved he could have laughed. "I expected him to come."

But he hadn't. He hadn't come, and again Hagrid felt his heart lift at the words, at the knowledge that Harry was safe.

Voldemort continued to stare into the fire. "I was, it seems… mistaken."

"You weren't."

For the second time in the matter of moments, Hagrid was unable to breathe. He had imagined it. He must have imagined it because he had been so worried. The anxiety had made him insane, that must be it. Because Harry wasn't there. _He hadn't come. _

But he forced himself to turn his head, forced his eyes to focus on what they were trying to show him, and saw, the one person he loved more than anything in the world, stepping forward towards his death.

"HARRY! NO!"

He didn't think that he had any more energy in him to do it, but he was suddenly struggling against the binds with more force than he had before. Struggling to pull himself free, to get to Harry, to do something to stop what was happening.

As he fought against the ties, Harry turned to him, and Hagrid noticed for the first time just how awful he looked. Forget death warmed up, he hadn't even begun to thaw. His clothes were covered in grim and his hair had never looked worse. The strands stuck up in every direction, and the tips looked as though they had been charred.

But the worst thing was his eyes. Hagird could remember, as though it had been only hours ago, when he met Harry, that scrawny little boy, all those years ago. He could remember that look on his face when he told him he was a wizard, the look in his bright green, youthful eyes – oh, so much like Lily's. But now they looked like death, something Harry had been forced to witness too many times in his young life. The horror he had encountered now shone through his eyes, and Hagrid felt his own eyes fill up with tears, recalling the innocent and hopeful child the man standing feet away from him used to be.

But now it would all be gone. Now it was all going to end. Harry had come, and now he was going to be –

"NO! NO! HARRY, WHAT'RE YEH - ?

But his desperate yells were cut off by one of the Death Eaters, who quickly silenced him with a spell.  
But just because he couldn't speak, didn't mean he couldn't keep fighting. He was now tugging at the ropes so hard that they were digging into his wrists. But he ignored the blood that was socking his shirt. There was only one thought on his mind. He needed to get to Harry.

But Harry wasn't even looking at him anymore. His eyes were on Voldemort, whose eyes were on him in return. They stared at each other, only the fire separating them, flickering in the darkness, causing shadows to play across the ground.

This couldn't be happening, this couldn't be real. That's the only thing Hagrid had left to hold onto. There must be a plan, there was always a plan. Because Harry always pulled through, even when it seemed like he wouldn't, even when everyone was sure he wasn't going to win. And then he would, he would stand up, he would be victorious. Harry always came through, Harry always came home.

He had to have some brilliant plan up his sleeve, something, _anything_. But as Hagrid continued to fight against his binds, he studied Harry's stance. It wasn't one of confidence, of victory. It was more of resignation and acceptance. Acceptance that he was about to….

No, no, no! But Hagrid couldn't scream, he couldn't make a sound. And though his mind was reeling, it was silent enough in the clearing for him to hear Voldemort's next words.

"Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived."

And then Hagrid watched helplessly as the long, white fingers raised the thin wand in the air, and uttered the curse that would end it all.

"_Avada Kedavra_!"

NO!

But again, the scream was only in Hagrid's head, and he pulled as hard as he possibly could against his prison, as he watched the sickly green light shoot from the wand and fly through the air.

He looked towards Harry in that split second, and saw that he was staring forward, standing in a bold stance that would have made his parents proud. And Hagird was reminded of the time he held Harry in his arms, after he rescued him from his destroyed house, of how he fell asleep with his tiny face snuggled against his coat.

And then the green light hit Harry in his chest, right over his heart, and he was thrown backwards, where he fell, facedown on the ground, unmoving.

Hagrid was sure this time that his lungs had stopped working.

No, no, he couldn't be. He _couldn't_ be!

Hagrid couldn't turn his face away, not even if he had wanted to. He stared at Harry's still, pale face, begging him to wake up, to stand, to _move_.

But Harry didn't move. He lay there with his eyes closed. His glasses, which had been knocked sideways when he fell, were crooked, the edge sticking into the side of his face, and Hagrid's first thought was that he hoped they weren't broken. Because then, how would he see? With a tug in his heart he remembered that Harry no longer had to.

His vision was swimming because of the tears in his eyes, the tears that were streaming down his face, leaving hot tracks on his cheeks.

Harry, Harry, Harry!

It couldn't be true, he couldn't be _dead_. Not innocent, sweat, caring, selfless Harry. Harry, who always did the right thing, no matter how much it hurt. Harry, who always thought of someone else, regardless of what might happen to him. It wasn't even about the war anymore; Hagrid couldn't care less about it. It no longer mattered that Harry was the one who could defeat the Dark, it only mattered that Harry Potter, the son of Lily and James Potter, the child who had never really gotten to be a child, now lay on the ground dead.

Hagrid had no more energy left in him. Not physically or mentally. He had no will to fight. Whatever happened next meant nothing. It was really the end, it was really over. With Harry, their hero and their hope, gone, there was simply no desire to continue fighting.

But surely Voldemort didn't think this. Surely he should be _celebrating_. Celebrating his terrible victory over a child, a child who had willfully walked up to him and handed himself over.

But there were no sounds of victory, no cheering or laughing. In fact, there was soft, scared whispering from the surrounding Death Eaters. It was only because of shock that Hagrid was able to tear his eyes away from Harry's body.

Though he was sure he could feel nothing at this time but pure agony, he was slightly shocked at the sight he beheld. Voldemort was no longer standing, but sitting on the ground, as though he had fallen, as though the curse he had cast on Harry had had some kind of effect on him as well.

But he, unfortunately, didn't appear to be dead. He was in fact standing up, pushing aside the hands of his cronies who were offering him help.

"I do no require assistance," he hissed.

Voldemort stood once more, facing the flames of the fire, looking past them towards Harry, who was still lying on the ground. Hagrid wished he wasn't tied up. He wanted to tear, to kill, to make the monster who had taken Harry away from him, suffer. How dare he look at Harry?

"The boy," Voldemort asked, addressing his Death Eaters. "Is he dead?"

He received no answer.

Hagrid, though he knew it would just hurt even more later, let a small sliver of hope plant itself in his mind. If Voldemort was unsure that he had been successful in what he had intended to do, maybe, just maybe, he really hadn't been. Maybe, as it had years ago, Voldemort's curse had not been enough to finish Harry.

"You. Examine him. Tell me whether he is dead."

Hagrid recognized Narcissa Malfoy as the one who was forced to move forward. He watched with disdain as the woman kneeled beside Harry, peering into his eyes, putting her hand down his shirt to feel his heart.

_Please_, Hagrid was begging silently. _Please, please let him be alive._

Hagrid had been right. It did hurt worse when he saw her sit up straight and call out to the watching crowd, "He is dead."

The world was collapsing underneath his feet again. It had been stupid for him to hope, stupid for him to think that there was any chance that Harry could have survived the Killing Curse again, but that's what grief does to you. It makes you believe that the impossible can happen, only to tear you to pieces again when you realize that it hasn't.

Hagrid could no longer see what was happening, the tears were too thick, too many.

"You see?" Voldemort was saying, his voice full of malevolence. "Harry Potter is dead by my hand, and no man alive can threaten me now! Watch! _Crucio_!"

Hagrid's head snapped up. No! He was not going to let that villain defile Harry's body. But he was forced to watch in horror, as he was still bound so tightly he could barely move.

Even though he knew Harry could no longer feel any pain, he couldn't help but wince as he saw Harry's body lifted in the air again, and again, his glasses flying off his face, and his body flopping lifelessly before falling to the ground in a limp heap.

The Death Eaters cackled in horrendous delight, and Hagrid wanted nothing more than to watch them all die painful deaths.

But Voldemort was not finished. "Now, we go to the castle and show them what has become of their hero. Who shall drag the body?"

Before Hagrid could gasp at the revulsion of such a thing, Voldemort had turned to face him.

"No – Wait - "

Hagrid glared at Voldemort through his puffy, tired eyes, forcing as much hatred into the stare as he was able.

"You carry him," Voldemort said, shocking Hagrid as he flicked his wand and caused the ropes around his wrists to disappear. "He will be nice and visible in your arms, will he not? Pick up your little friend Hagrid. And the glasses – put on the glasses – he must be recognizable."

Bellatrix beat Hagrid to it, jamming Harry's glasses back onto his face. She then backed away from him, and smiled gleefully as Hagrid stepped forward.

He paused for a moment to gather himself. But as he stared down at Harry's still form, fresh tears coursed down his face and he realized that that would be impossible. So he bent down, and as carefully as he could, put his arms beneath Harry's legs and back, and lifted his limp body into the air, cradling him against his chest.

Hagrid's hot tears fell upon Harry's hair, his face, but Harry didn't respond. His face looked peaceful enough, younger than Hagrid had seen him looking in a very long time.

It caused him physical pain to think that he was never again going to see Harry smile, never hear him laugh, never watch him play Quidditch, or hang out with Ron and Hermione on the Hogwart's grounds during their breaks. Harry was never going to graduate from school, he was never going to get married and have children. He was never going to grow old and gray and live the long, healthy life he deserved to live.

Hagrid's crying became more intense as he realized that this time, Harry wasn't going to come back.

"Move," Voldemort ordered, and Hagrid was forced to move forward, forced to follow Voldemort out of the forest, back towards the castle.

He thought for a moment of running, but noticed that the Death Eaters had formed a circle around Hagrid, walking together in a closed formation so that Hagrid had no hope of escaping. Even if he was able to break free, he could hear the giants following behind them, and knew he had no hope of escaping from them.

So he continued to walk forward, holding Harry's body close to his chest, protecting the child he had never been able to properly protect.

It was then that he saw them, their faces peering out from between the trees, watching the group walking past them.

Hagrid felt a surge of anger towards them, the centaurs who thought that they could see the future in the stars. The centaurs who had been whispering in the forest for years that the fates predicted just this. That they predicted the death of the boy Hagrid held in his arms.

"BANE!" he suddenly yelled, spotting the familiar face in the near darkness. "Happy now, are yeh, that you didn' fight, yeh cowardly bunch o' nags? Are yeh happy Harry Potter's – d-dead…?"

But he couldn't go on. The rest of the sentence was cut off by more tears.

The eyes held no hint that Hagrid's words had affected him and Hagrid turned his face away from the watching creatures.

They continued walking, out of the forest, back to the Hogwart's lawns. Just as they reached it, Voldemort held up his hand and said, "Stop."

They did, and stood there waiting. Hagrid tried his best no to notice the Dementors that swarmed the outer edges of the forest, though the chill in the air was not easy to ignore.

Voldemort lifted his wand tip up to his neck, and when he next spoke the words were so loud they seemed to resonate from the trees themselves.

"Harry Potter is dead. He was killed as he ran away, trying to save himself while you lay down your lives for him."

Fury washed over Hagrid like a tidal wave. It was an awful lie. Harry would never run away, would never leave the ones he loves behind. It wasn't in his nature to even be able to.

"We bring you his body as proof that your hero is gone. The battle is won. You have lost half of your fighters. My Death Eaters outnumber you, and the Boy Who Lived is finished. There must be no more war. Anyone who continues to resist, man, woman or child, will be slaughtered, as will every member of their family. Come out of the castle now, kneel before me, and you shall be spared. Your parents and children, your brothers and sisters will live and be forgiven, and you will join me in the new world we shall build together."

Hagrid shivered at the words. There was no way they were going to give up like that, not after everyone they had lost. His arms tightened around Harry's body.

"Come," Voldemort commanded, and Hagrid was pushed forward by the Death Eaters around him.

They had left the forest now and were making their way towards the castle's front doors. Just as they were crossing the grounds, Hagrid caught sight of his hut, from the corner of his eye, and began crying even harder.

He could recall so distinctly the many times that Harry, Ron, and Hermione had journeyed down to his home to visit him. The time that he brought an upchucking Ron, who was spitting slugs into a bucket for an hour. Or the time that he came by to try and consol him after Buckbeack had been sentences to death. But Harry would never come by to visit him again.

"Harry," he murmured, looking down at the poor boy he held. "Oh Harry…. Harry…."

He lifted a gentle hand to sweep Harry's bangs out of his eyes, shuddering as he felt the cold skin of Harry's cheek against his fingertips.

The Death Eaters around Hagrid had stopped, and were now spreading out in a straight line in front of the castle entrance. The grand doors were open and Hagrid could see that there were people gathering inside there too, gathering themselves to witness if what they heard had indeed been true. To see if Harry was indeed dead.

Hagrid continued to pat Harry's hair back from his forehead, waiting for the Hogwarts survivors to come out. Waiting for more tears to come. Waiting for the Light Side to find out that, this time, Harry wasn't coming home.

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_A/N: Hee hee hee hee! I was supposed to go to sleep about two hours ago! So, I really hope you all appreciate me updating this chapter, and you know, the best way to show appreciation is by reviewing! Right? Right? _


	3. Chapter 3: Screams

So, anyone who has been reading this story probably noticed that I changed the title from Hope to More that Just a Mistake. I just thought that that seemed to go with the story better than the original title, so I hope this hasn't confused anyone too badly. Anyway, time for another chapter. I chose to do this one from Ron's point of view, since I just adore the friendship he has with Harry. It's so real and sincere, and I think that this is one of the emotionally hardest times in the whole series for Ron, and I really wanted to delve into that a bit. So a huge thank you to everyone who has been reading, and especially anyone who took the time to review. And now, on with the story!

P.S.: So sorry this took so long guys! It's just that I just started college a little while ago, and it's been good until it became awful. I've a bit depressed because most of my friends are in a different country for a year and I miss them a whole lot. I've been feeling pretty lonely as of late and that has put me in quite a foul mood and zapped most of my inspiration away. Don't get me wrong, I love writing, I really, truly do, but I've been feeling so off lately that I didn't have the energy. But I finally told myself that I should grow up and just write this already. Funny how writing something so sad and depressing can actually make you feel better. Again, though, I'm so sorry. I hope you can forgive me!

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**More than Just a Mistake - Cubye4**

**Chapter 3 – Screams**

There was no air in the room. Not one single molecule of oxygen to breathe. There was absolutely nothing at all, except for fear, loss, and that biting, stinging horror.

Not that that wasn't to be expected. It was a war after all, a time synonymous with fear and horror, and, unfortunately, loss.

But even this must be too much.

Isn't it true that good always triumphs over evil? That the hero always prevails? He must, or how could the world exist on justice? Without this there could _be_ no justice! Without this, no sense of right or wrong, and by default, no real sense of good or evil at all.

It was not possible therefore, that Harry Potter could be dead.

This is what Ron Weasley reasoned to himself in the second between him hearing Voldemort's pronouncement of his friend's death, and his own feet running towards the castle's large front doors.

His best friend could not be dead. He would simply not allow it to be possible.

Ron had not waited for Voldemort to complete his speech. At the words "Harry Potter is dead," his eyes had met Hermione's for the millionth time that night and he saw something break in them, the same thing he felt breaking inside his own heart. It was as though ice was being poured down his throat, leaving every inch of him numb at its touch. Like someone had taken his brain and churned it with a spoon so that nothing in the world seemed to make sense anymore. Like a knife was sticking in his chest and cutting his very soul into shreds.

For a moment he was utterly unable to move. Not that he didn't want to, not that he didn't need to, but that it seemed as though his limbs were actually rebelling against him. It was as though he had turned to stone and his nerves were no longer understanding the command of _move_. And then, as though he had been shocked, there was suddenly life back in his body and he was running towards the castle's doors as he had never run before, like if he didn't keep a pace that had his feet pounding against the ground, his life would be over.

He barely registered the soft feel of the two hands that slid into his own, though his fingers constricted around them and he was suddenly gripping them as though they were lifelines. If he was to be honest with himself, they were.

At his right he heard Hermione's light footsteps struggling to keep up with his own, her breath coming out in short gasps that were punctured, unmistakably, by sobs. On his left he could see, from the corner of his eyes, the tears streaming down his sister's face with no inhibitions. Her eyes were the eyes of an aged man who had seen all the horrors in the world and more.

It was funny though, how he could hear and process all of that at the moment. How he seemed to be able to hear and process nearly everything that was happening around him, even though his brain was focused only on his destination. Like how he noticed all the shocked, distraught faces, some crying, some screaming. It was as though his brain was seeing every reaction of the people around him and committing it to memory.

There were people ahead of the desperate trio, people who had started running before Ron had been able to unfreeze his body. They were hurrying towards the doors and Ron wondered if they were going because Voldemort had told them to. He himself had never heard any such announcement; even if it was made he hadn't been listening. Ron ran only because he felt in his soul that that was the way to Harry. That if he just opened those doors and stepped out into the pre morning air Harry would be making his way towards him, smiling, with his broom slung across his shoulder, asking him if he thought the upcoming Quidditch match was going to be marred by rainy weather.

Because Harry was going to come and put everything right; there was no doubt in Ron's mind about that. Harry always came and put things right. He just couldn't help it. It was in his nature to be the hero, and so he would continue to be. That was the most reasonable thing in the world. No matter what would come to be, Harry's presence was constant. Ron had no reason to doubt that.

So what was Voldemort's goal here? He had to know, like everyone knew, that Harry would not be foolish enough to go out there and give himself over! He had to know that no one would believe such an obvious lie. So why say it to begin with?

To destroy their morale? To tear apart the little hope they had left? Perhaps. That was the way he worked, wasn't it? Chip away at every little part of them until they… what? Gave up? Stopped fighting? Lay down their wands and accepted their loss?

Like hell they would! Like hell they would ever just shrug their shoulders and say 'Oh well, we tried our best, but what more can we do?' No! Never! After all they had been through, after all they had lost, they were not going to just let that monster take over.

And that's why they needed Harry. Because Harry was their rallying voice, their hope, their leader. And if he didn't show up right this instant and end all of this baseless worrying, this madness, Ron was going to personally strangle him with his bare hands.

Because that's what all of this was. Baseless worrying. Fear and terror that stemmed from nothing but lies. Yet, why was it that people were suddenly stopping around them? Stopping and gasping as one, like a single entity subjected to the worst of horrors?

It took Ron's brain a long time to realize what that must mean. Far longer than he would have expected, considering everything had been moving so quickly before and he had been able to register it clearly then. But now his mind was like molasses, perhaps it was the last saving grace his subconscious had blessed him with, to protect him. But it was useless, and even he knew that. Because if his body really wanted to protect him, he would no longer be able to see, to hear, any of what was happening around him. But he could, all too distinctly.

The first thing that reached his ears, long before his eyes had caught up with what they were seeing, was a terrible cry of denial, from a person he had never heard utter such an anguished exclamation. He recognized the voice without having to see who it was, and hearing McGonagall scream like that sent shivers up his spine that burned his skin and left it feeling raw. He probably would have thought the tight grip on his hands from his companions painful, uncomfortable, if it wasn't for that fact that he was squeezing them just as tightly back.

Almost impossibly through the darkness, Ron turned and saw his old professor and his heart skipped multiple beats. Her face was twisted into a look that could only be recognized as the purest form of sadness, as though she had suffered a personal loss and would never be able to get over it. And, more shocking still, were the tears making their way down her cheeks, tears that she seemed not notice in her despair.

And Ron, still desperate to hold onto the safety of his denial, knew that there was only one thing that could make her look that way, and as he looked over to where his Head of House was staring, he felt his world officially end.

It was an image that had haunted him in his sleep, in wake, in every corner for the past two years, since he had come to accept that his best friend's role in the coming war would be far greater, and far more dangerous, than he had ever imagined. And while he had no doubt that his friend would be successful, no doubt that he would win, there had always been that fear in him that he could never admit out of pure hatred for what it was. But when he was alone, when his thoughts were given little heed and began to wander into the darkest parts of his mind, he had seen it, had come to be familiar with the dreaded possibility that such a thing could happen.

These fears had become worse when he had left Harry and Hermione alone in that tent, ages ago it felt, had left them on their own to fight a battle that none of them should have been fighting in the first place. It was the first night he had been at Shell Cottage, sleeping in the guest room in a bed far more comfortable than anything he knew his friends had, that he experienced the harshest dream he had ever experienced, and, along with it, the worst case of guilt he ever had to deal with.

While it had only been a dream, it had been terrible. The events leading up to that one image had melted away with time, with the consciousness that sends all dreams to that vault more hidden than memories, but that one part itself had stuck in Ron's mind, playing over and over again when he had felt most vulnerable.

The image of Harry dead.

He had woken up with half of his sheets on the floor, his whole body covered in sweat, his breath stolen from his lungs. As he lay there, gasping, trying to regain control, he realized just how serious this war was. Just how dire the consequences could be. Those thoughts that had nestled their way into Ron's mind so long ago had grown into an indestructible wall, pushing its way into the forefront where he was now forced to recognize it as a possibility.

They might not all come out of this. They weren't safe. There _was_ a possibility, and, considering how deep into it they were, a strong possibility, that one of them would fall. He had just never thought that that one could be Harry.

And through all of the time since, he had struggled to overcome those thoughts, for it did no good to dwell on them. Each time they entered his mind, he brushed them behind the gate he had constructed, reminding himself that Harry was sitting right there next to him, standing in front of him, lying in the bed across from him, breathing and whole and alive.

But now, standing there, face to face with the nightmare that had followed him in the shadows, he had no way to trick himself into believing it was not true. Because it was.

Time had come to a standstill. It no longer moved forward, just stood there in a place between existence and everything else, like a comatose being that just could not go further. Like an iced sculpture bolted to the ground, the whole world had come to a halt, lying still and unresponsive, as Harry Potter lay in Hagrid's immense arms.

Ron wished he could look away, turn his eyes, and see something else, anything else, but the lifeless body of his best friend, but time no longer existed and there was no escaping the moment he was bound to. And so while the very core of his being shuddered and begged to be let out of its agony, Ron could do nothing but stare at the cause of it.

He had never thought of Harry as a child. Never once, through his whole life, had he come to compare Harry to a kid. Even when he himself was no older than a toddler, the stories of the great Harry Potter were nothing familiar to him; they were fairy tales almost, because how could someone, even younger than himself, do something so worthwhile, so amazing? No, not even when he had come to know him had Ron seen Harry as anything less than a super human, a hero, with far greater abilities and strengths than anyone else would dare try to attain. There was always a greatness to him that made it seem as though he had been born an adult, fully ready to take on the challenges that faced him.

But now, as Ron studying the tiny body being held aloft in Hagrid's shaking arms, he noticed just how small his dearest younger brother was. Not just in stature, though he had always been shorter and thinner than Ron had, but in his features, the features Ron suddenly realized he had taken for granted.

Harry had sprouted more facial hair than Ron had ever known him to have, in their months on the run. Regardless of the ability they had both had to shave whenever they wanted, there was something about hiding out in forests and fields that made them feel the whole thing would be useless anyway. It was only when Hermione wouldn't stand it any longer that they would actually pick up a razor. But the stubble on Harry's cheeks did not make him look any older at the moment, if anything it made him look even more like a youngster. Mimicking the rest of his life – a child forced to take on the burdens of a grown man.

And still Ron could not look away.

There was a deathly paleness to Harry's skin. His face, which had rarely been seen without deep lines between his eyebrows, at the edges of his lips, underneath his eyes where black circles had been permanently sketched out, was suddenly much more peaceful, angelic even, than it ever had been. Content, happy almost.

And still Ron's heart was shattering into a million pieces, falling to the ground in a pile of loss. And his brain seemed to be reaching its end, reaching the limit on what it could handle, skipping precariously closer to the edge of reality….

Harry's hair was a mess as it always had been, strands sticking up every which way, his bangs falling over his eyes which were closed, not in a grimace, but in a sense of comfort. And there was his lightning bolt scar, that famous, cursed scar, bright red against his white skin.

And still the world would not move. Still there was nothing, absolutely nothing but a deep, all-consuming pain that was spreading and growing inside Ron's being. Screaming and fighting and yelling and dying all in a horrendously poisonous harmony. And Ron could not take it anymore, could not stand it, and in his desperate effort to been gone of it, opened his mouth and cried out like he had never cried out before.

"NO!"

And everything exploded and Ron's final hold on sanity collapsed to nothingness.

Ron, still bound by the agony of his heart, suddenly noticed how his fingers had gone numb, all feeling lost from them as the two people on his side continued to squeeze all life from them. Hermione was on his right and she was making the most terrible choking sounds Ron had ever heard in his life. As though he was actually listening to the sound of her soul being ripped to bits. His being no longer tied down by the paralysis of time, his eyes found the eyes of the love of his life, and he vowed at that moment that he would rather die than see her look like that ever again.

Her face was screwed up as though she was being tortured, and she was shaking her head back and forth like a pendulum on fast forward. He lips were moving too quickly for Ron to make out the words, but they were getting louder and louder and then Ron could hear, suddenly wishing that he couldn't.

"No, no, he can't – No, Harry, please… please, no, please, _please_….. No! NO!"

And she was screaming as loud as Ron was, and it was then that he noticed he was still screaming. And her eyes turned to meet his, and everything crumbled to dust because the pain grew twofold and Ron was too far beyond caring….

But Ginny was on his other side, on his other side and dying as the rest of them were. And so while he couldn't stop his yelling, he grabbed her tightly and hoped that maybe he could help her. But she was too far gone and she didn't even notice him. Her eyes were wide and drowning and she was shouting louder than anyone else was, shouting his name, over and over again.

"Harry! Harry! _Harry!"_

And the word kept repeating in Ron's head and he couldn't figure out if it was him or just his sister's screaming. And his own screams still hadn't stopped, and through it all he went back to staring at his brother, at his audacity to not answer back their calls, and then with a tormented heart wished he could take back thinking that, because it wasn't Harry's fault, because he _couldn't_ answer, because he was –

But NO! NO! He couldn't be. He couldn't be and Hermione's insistent voice rang in his head and he knew he was right because _she _was always right, and it wasn't possible anyway. Because they were friends, brothers, closer even, closer than anything, and if he, Ron, he himself, was not dead, then Harry couldn't be either.

They all seemed to come to the conclusion at once, and so while Ron started forward, so did the other two still holding onto his now bloodless hands. They all walked forward as one, desperate to get to him, desperate to reach their friend, to reach him and prove to everyone that he was not dead.

But before they could move any further, new hands grabbed them around their wastes, their wrists, their shoulders, pulling them back, denying them the comfort they needed. And Ron only half realized that those hands belonged to his father, and his brothers Bill and Percy and George, and Fred because he must be there too. Just like Harry wasn't dead, Fred could not be dead. But he shook off the hands, tried to shake off the hands, and they just held on tighter, and through the screaming and the crying and the dying he thought he heard their words but they were meaningless.

"Stop it!" Bill?

"Don't do this, I know - " Percy?

"I'm sorry - " George?

And though Fred didn't answer Ron still knew he was there, still believed he was there, still knew….

"Ron, Ron you need to stop. Ron, Hermione, _Ginny_!" That was his father, that must be his father… "You have to stop, there… there's nothing you can do for him. There's nothing more you can do… he's already gone…."

Gone? What was his father saying, why was he crying? Why were they all crying and why was he still screaming?

And suddenly he remembered Harry, remembered what he needed to do, what he was doing, remembered, through the fog that had entered his mind, that he needed to get to his friend. He needed to reach Harry and prove… What? What was it that he needed to prove? What was it that was happening?

And his brain, his brain which had seen too much, had felt too much, wouldn't answer him, wouldn't tell him what he knew, somewhere deep down, was happening. There were too many voices yelling and shouting and still he had not stopped screaming….

And then, just like that, there was silence. Deadly still silence. And all eyes were looking forward, for their voices were no longer working, and there was nothing more they _could_ do but look and listen.

"SILENCE!" Voldemort shouted, and Ron felt a jolt of shock, because he didn't remember seeing Voldedmort before. Through all the horror of what had just unfolded before their eyes, the reason behind it had slipped Ron's notice. But now he saw, saw all too clearly the monster that was standing across the lawn from them, his cohorts lined up in a mass of black cloaks behind him. He held is wand raised, and had a look of terrible satisfaction on his face that made Ron's insides squirm.

"It's over!" he continued, and his lips curved into what could only be described as a smile, one so horrid it looked as though it had been born by the Devil himself. "Set him down, Hagrid, at my feet, where he belongs!"

NO!

Ron wanted to yell it, yell it till his throat was torn and bleeding from the pressure of yelling it. He was not going to allow his best friend to be defiled that way!

But he could not speak, the spell that Voldemort had cast upon them all still weighed heavily and no one could utter a sound. And so he was forced to watch, to his pure torment, as Hagrid lowered his best friend's limp, lifeless body onto the dirty ground at Voldemort's feet.

He lay there, looking so small, so vulnerable, as Voldemort began to walk backwards and forwards beside him, that evil smirk still alive on his deathly lips.

As Ron stared at Harry, he tried to look for something, anything, that would prove that he was not really… not really…. The twitch of a finger perhaps, the fluttering of an eyelid, the simple rise and fall of his chest. But Harry just lay there, in the same spot that Hagrid had placed him, unmoving, completely unresponsive to the world around him. And a voice in Ron's head nudged him, whispered what he must believe to be right. Harry was no longer with them, like Fred was no longer with them….

"You see?" Voldemort went on, his voice laced with his own joy at their despair. "Harry Potter is dead!"

As Harry continued to lie there motionless, the statement cut Ron open even further. Dead. _Dead_. His best mate was dead, gone forever….

"Do you understand now, deluded ones? He was nothing, ever, but a boy who relied on others to sacrifice themselves for him!"

"He beat you!"

Ron didn't know where the strength had finally come from. That desperation to scream out finally built up to such a level, that despite Voldemort's best efforts to keep the defenders of Hogwarts quiet, he was unable to do so. If there hadn't been much more important things to think about, Ron would have wondered why. But at the moment, he simply couldn't bring himself to care.

Now they were all yelling again, and noise was becoming unbearably loud, but Ron was yelling along with them, and Hermione and Ginny, and they were all still struggling against the hands that were holding them. But now it was only about attacking, fighting, killing. And Voldemort's anger at their disobedience increased and the spell he cast on them this time was so much stronger that there seemed to be an invisible hand clamped over all of their mouths.

"He was killed while trying to sneak out of the castle grounds," Voldemort announced, and Ron didn't believe it, would not believe it, because he knew Harry better than anyone, and Harry would never run away, even if it meant giving up everything he had. "Killed while trying to save himself - "

But Vodemort went no further, his paused in his speech and Ron, out of the corner of his eyes, saw the reason why. Neville, somehow, miraculously, had broken free of the magical binding that held them all, broken free and charged into the open space between the two enemy sides. With a flick of Voldemort's wrist, Neville wand was pulled from his hand and thrown to the ground, but Neville seemed not to even notice. There was nothing but hatred in his eyes, hatred for the evil being who had murdered Harry and countless others, and he stood there glaring and shaking.

Ron heard Hermione's whispered "No, Neville," from beside him, and he suddenly knew just how terrible this was. They had lost too many of their friends, they could not stand to lose another.

"And who's this?" Voldemort asked, staring at Neville who stood there wandless, defenseless. "Who has volunteered to demonstrate what happens to those who continue to fight when the battle is lost?"

Ron heard the sound of laughter that he knew would surely haunt him for the rest of his life and saw Bellatrix smiling as though she had just received a prize. Ron vowed at that moment, that before the day was done, he would see her dead.

"It is Neville Longbottom," Bellatrix answered her master. "The boy who has been giving the Carrows so much trouble. The son of the Aurors, remember?"

"Ah, yes, I remember," was Voldemort's reply. "But you are a pureblood, aren't you, my brave boy?"

"So what if I am?" yelled Neville, and Ron had never felt more pride for his friend than he did in that moment.

"You show spirit and bravery, and you come of noble stock," Voldemort went on, and Ron, though he couldn't say it, thought _Hell, yeah!_ But Voldemort was not finished. "You will make a very valuable Death Eater. We need your kind, Neville Longbottom."

And Neville responded adequately for the rest of them, "I'll join you when hell freezes over! Dumbledore's Army!"

It seemed that when they were all shouting together, Voldemort could not control them, and so as one they broke the charm again.

"Very well," Voldemort said, and though they were all still yelling, there was no mishearing the tone Voldemort now spoke in, one that chilled their bones. "If that is your choice, Longbottom, we revert to the original plan. On your head, be it."

Something was flying through the sky towards him, and for a moment Ron thought it was a dead bird, but as it came closer into view he recognized it as the Sorting Hat.

"There will be no more Sorting a Hogwart's School, there will be no more Houses. The emblem, shield, and colors of my noble ancestor, Salazar Slytherin, will suffice for everyone. Won't they, Neville Longbottom?"

Before Ron even had the chance to wonder what Voldemort meant to do, he had pointed his wand as Neville so that he stood frozen under the new spell, and put the hat atop his head. The surrounding fighters all made gestures, moving forward in an attempt to stop whatever awful thing it was that they knew was about to happen, but the Death Eaters across from them held up their wands and forced them into immobility.

Voldemort, seemingly satisfied that he was not going to be interrupted, continued on. "Neville here is now going to demonstrate what happens to anyone foolish enough to continue to oppose me." And just like that, he set the Sorting Hat on fire.

There was a desperation in all their hearts to rush forward and help the smoldering figure before them, but they were still bound, unable to move, unable to do anything….

It was at that precise moment that everything was turned upside down.

From beyond the gates of Hogwarts the sound of running feet, the sound of voices raised together in a rallying cry of attack, began making its way towards them. It was hard to make out in the dark, but there seemed to be hundreds of witches, wizards, and magical creatures alike, hurrying forwards. The Death Eaters, distracted by the noise, lowered their wands, and the fighters of Hogwarts were suddenly, blessedly, free.

While most of them ran to attack the Death Eaters who all looked caught off guard, Hermione, her hand still glued to Ron's, pulled him in the other direction.

"The horcrux," she said, and her voice sounded raw and tired and cracked. "We need to destroy it, Ron."

And Ron nodded and followed her blindly through the massive wall of people who were running past them. A part of his brain realized and told him that Ginny was no longer on his other side, that she must have gone the other way, to murder the Death Eaters who had caused them so much pain, like Ron wanted to do himself. But he knew that Hermione was right, and they still needed to help Neville.

Just as he thought it though, he saw, to his utter amazement, Neville break free of the enchantment, break free and throw the Sorting Hat off of his head. And, more amazing than that, more unbelievable, he pulled a ruby encrusted sword from its depths, a sword that Ron place immediately. The sword of Godric Gryffindor. And before he had the time to think to tap Hermione on the shoulder and tell her to look, he saw Neville raise the sword above his head and in one fell swoop, bring it down upon the head of Nagini the snake. And through all the chaos, all the mayhem, Ron saw Voldemort's mouth open in rage, saw him raise his wand in fury, and point it at Neville. But Hermione, who had seen what had happened, shouted "_Progeto_" before Voldemort could get a word out. Without looking back, Neville turned and ran head forward into the fray surrounding them.

That was it. It was done. All the horcruxes were gone, finished, destroyed, and now there was nothing more for them to do but kill the monster who had created them all. But while Hermione had already begun to run towards the castle where the battle heart of the battle seemed to be moving, Ron pulled her in the opposite direction.

They could not forget, would not forget that there was something, in that moment, more important than destroying Voldemort, and as Ron hurried forward, Hermione forever at his side, he hoped that he had not been hurt, that his body had not been harmed. The image of his best friend being trampled in the many rushing feet tore at his soul and he willed his legs to move faster, to reach him quicker, to fall to his side and protect him since it was the only way he had left to protect him. But again they were too late, and someone beat them to it.

Through the considerably thinner crowd they saw Hagrid lifting Harry's body into the air once more, cradling him gently. Ron gave silent thanks to the fact that there didn't seem to be any further damage done to him as Hagrid began to carry Harry over to his hut, somewhere safe, out of harm's way. But as Ron made to follow them Hermione pulled him back.

"Ron," she said, and again her voice sounded hollow out of overuse. "Ron we need to finish this. We need to end it!"

Ron made a sound between a sob and a sigh. A sound of defeat.

"Ron, please."

Ron turned to look at her, to really look at her. She was a mess. Her eyes were rimmed in red, tears that had dried were still visible on her cheeks and she was gasping in the way one does when they desperately need to cry but know they can't break down just yet.

"This needs to be _over_," she said, and Ron closed his eyes at her words.

He knew she was right, she was always the right one. She was the smart on after all, and Harry was the –

But no, Hermione was right. They couldn't think about that now, couldn't deal with that now. And so Ron, as reluctant as Hermione, turned away from Hagrid's retreating form, and started for the castle's large front doors. The world may have ended, but the battle was only now reaching its climax.

* * *

I do believe that that was the longest chapter I've written for a fanfiction. Wow. I really loved writing this one though, I just love Ron's character so much! I felt that at this moment his thoughts would just be all over the place and that's why some of the sentences are just really long and repeating the same things over and over again. I think seeing his best friend dead would really just mess him up a bit. Sorry about that, but that's the truth. I hope you liked this chapter! I would love for you to leave a review, it would be so sweet! Thanks for reading!


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